


Cosette Chapeau

by Tolpen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blackmail, Fire, Gen, Heresy but in a funny way, New Beginning, Not being aware of own depression, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Racism, The World of What If, Torture, hints of domestic abuse, or rather attempts at torture and blackmail, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-07-14 00:11:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16028918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: The man knelt down to the young girl, took his hat off and said: “My name is Inspector Javert. I've come to take you away from here.”For a moment, Cosette considered this statement. She looked up at Thénardier, who nodded hesitantly as if against himself. Upon this, the child clung to Javerts' coat.In which it is Inspector Javert who takes Cosette from the Thénardiers and subsequently finds it very difficult to dispose of her, mainly because she has become his new hat. How much does it change the world? How much does it changehim?





	1. A Beautiful Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspector Javert honours what was just, good and lawful in Monsieur Madeleine (who had never existed in the first place), and a dog in Montfermeil doesn't bark.

Lied to! Deceived!

Oh, he had wanted to believe in the goodness of Monsieur Madeleine. The man had put the town back on its feet. He had made it the pride of Calais! Without him its entirety was bound to collapse!

And Monsieur Madeleine l'Maire was a lie. Nothing but a filthy lie!

Javert had his suspicions since the beginning. There proves, uncovered in the dead of the night or in the middle of the day. He didn't want to be right, for the sake of Montreuil-sur-Mer. But he was a man of the law. He served to protect the society.

A society led by such a dangerous man as Jean Valjean, the violent convict no one less, was a society at the verge of a collapse, no matter how thriving and prospering it seemed. An unclean splinter stuck in finger could and would infect the whole arm. Better to remove it now with a drop of blood and a hiss of pain, rather than to call a surgeon to cut of the arm at shoulder later.

The Inspector was pacing back and forth in his office. He felt a pinch of satisfaction and an ounce of uncertainty. What comes now, he thought. Hundreds of people flood the street, without work. Funding of the schools, orphanages and public hospitals come the the end. What comes now?

Those who are of a just mind and right thinking will seek new work. And those who turn to crime were always criminals in heart. Such was Javert's judgement of the future. One could worry about it, one could prepare for it, yes. But it was a future and it always came.

His actions today were just. More then just, they were to protect the society from the poison of the crime and the danger of criminals. And it was Javert's deduction and his observations and his vigilance thorough which it was accomplished! Such a great victory, for it was victory over the injustice and crime alike, couldn't go unrewarded. Javert reached into his inner pocket for his snuffbox.

Great was his puzzlement when his fingers pushed against a piece of paper. His brow knitted, he took it out. It was a short note written in a steady hand. _To M. Thénardier in Montfermeil: The man who brings you this note shall retrieve my daughter Cosette from your care._ It was signed with a large shaky F.

Javert had snatched this scrap of paper from Valjean's hand merely an hour ago when the man – no, not a man that damned liar! – was waving it in his face as if it could protect him. Three days of freedom, bah! Had he thought Javert mad?

Fantine, Javert knew, had never learned to write properly, to read she fas not able. The handwriting was of Madeleine. Not Madeleine's. Handwriting of Valjean in the role of an honourable mayor – neat and steady, small oblong letters of a man who spares the ink. The signature, yes, it belonged to the woman, barely literate enough to write her one initial.

If the money for the custody of the child, this Cosette, weren't paid, the girl would end up on the streets, as without a doubt a couple, who requested such an overcharged sum of money for their care, would throw her out of the house. Javert doubted they'd bother to give the child into an orphanage, as orphanages often requested large entry donations, as the called them, from parents. A newborn would be tossed at the entrance and found in the early morning. But a girl who was, how old, five years at least, probably more, no one would care. What would become of such a girl? She wold be hungry soon, she'd pick up an apple that had fallen on the ground in the market place, she'd find a lost sou on the pavement. But she wouldn't be able to live of finding only, she'd have to work and who would employ a child? One day there would be no apple on the ground, she'd take it from the stall, and the sou would be taken from a pocket of a passer-by. Such is the fate of children who have nobody to teach them better.

Javert was frowning as he made the paper into a roll and tapped his chin with it. The child was promised to be taken from the custody. It was written here on this very paper. Signed by a prostitute, but that did not make it any less legal paper. Inspector Javert was a man of word.

Perhaps, he though, it is the last act of this beautiful lie we called Madeleine.

  
  


The reader is familiar enough with Monsieur Thénardier and the inn _Au Sargent de Waterloo,_ and if they are not, the details of their history have been explained elsewhere and it would not serve us to repeat them, as they are easy to find, shall the reader wish to inform themselves upon that matter.

The clock hadn't stroke noon yet when Cosette, sweeping in front of the inn, noticed arrival of a man on horse. It was the most curious that he neither his horse were announced by barking of the dogs of Montfermeil. Even the old worn terrier across the street, who barked at sudden gusts of wind with a hoarse bark of a canine grandparent and was spending his last days laying at the wrought gate, was now only sitting and watching the man.

The traveller was of a tall figure, his hat was shading his face, and despite the weather being rather warm, he was wearing a wool coat of dark grey with three half-capes, and silver buttons polished that they shone brighter than the North Star. His horse was a mare in the colour of the liver, only on her forehead was a white spot shaped like a diamond.

He looked around. Cosette attempted to hide behind her broom, for the man's face was horrible. It was as if the vengeance of the Heavens had descended among the mortal men. Without as much as looking at her, the traveller entered the inn, demanding to see the master of the house.

Thénardier paid the traveller only one look to determine the man had only a little coin to spare, and that he was planning to spend it elsewhere.

“What would you like?” he asked him without a word of greeting.

The traveller in return looked him up an down. Thénardier shivered “You run this place?”

“I'd be the master of the house, yes, Monsieur...?”

The traveller, however, did not introduce himself. Instead he gave the innkeeper a two-times folded piece of paper. “I have been entrusted to recover the child of Fantine from your custody.”

“The woman still owes me-”

“She owes you nothing. I know all your overpriced fees and charges have been paid. And in due time, no less.” The man's voice was a growl beyond horrifying.

“But the loss of the child will cost...” Thénardier's voice died away. He could not bear the man looking at him.

“Do you perhaps intent to delay or even stand in way of the retrieval?”

“No, Monsieur, of course.”

“Good. Otherwise you would be thwart my duties, and as such I'd have to arrest you.”

Thénardier turned ashen: “You haven't said you are from the police.”

“It did not seem important at the moment. Where is the child? Call her in.”

“Cosette? Cosette! Where are you, you lazy dolt?” Thénardier went outside and returned with Cosette, who was still holding tight on the broom. He was holding her wrist so tight the girl was choking back tears. His grasp, however, softened when he saw the frown of the policeman.

“G'mornin,' M'sieur.”

“Speak clearly when you are talking! How many times have I to repeat that to you? You are –” What exactly he wanted to say about Cosette was to remain unknown, for he was silenced with a sharp gesture of the traveller.

The man knelt down to the young girl, took his hat off and said: “My name is Inspector Javert. I've come to take you away from here.”

For a moment, Cosette considered this statement. She looked up at Thénardier, who nodded hesitantly as if against himself. Upon this, the child clung to Javerts' coat.

“Where are your things?”

“P-pardon?”

“Your things,” the Inspector repeated. “Surely you need to pack. Where are her belongings?” He turned to Thénardier.

“These is all she has,” he exclaimed. “Except the broom. That one is mine. Don't you think you are leaving with my broom, you little thieving witch!”

Javert's frown deepened, but then he stood up, Cosette still clung to his coat. “Very well then. If that is the case, then we are set to go. Come, child.”

They walked outside to the liver-brown mare with a white diamond on forehead. The Inspector takes the small girl in one hand as he mounts into the saddle. They embark on a long journey, to where Cosette does not know. Neither of them looks back at _Au Sargent de Waterloo._ Not even when two young girls dressed in lace run out of the inn and wail loudly to no avail. Not even when Madame Thénardier went outside, lamenting and cussing behind them foully. Cosette thought that she felt Javert's chest rumble with a soundless laugh as he heeled the mare into brisk trot.

  
  


Despite being tucked in the half-capes of Javert's coat, Cosette was shivering with cold. The state he had received the girl in was something Javert hadn't counted with when he set out to Montfermeil. The girl was dressed only in tattered rags which not even the most optimist of the clergy couldn't call clothes and which could not protect her from the cool autumnal wind, not to mention the light rain which had broken out already.

They stopped in Creil at the end of the day where Javert rented them a modest room in a tavern to sleep somewhere overnight. The man himself was perfectly fit to continue travelling, even with Cosette falling asleep in his arms, but the mare, which name was Diana, was tired, as she had been keeping a brisk pace all day long.

Javert sat Cosette on the only bed in the small room devoid of any decoration or other furniture. “You will wait here,” he said to her, “while I go out to bring us something to eat. I will not be long.”

The girl didn't want to let go off him, but she said nothing for the fear that if she spoke out of turn or even worse, spoke something unwanted, Javert would beat her. Of course, the Inspector wouldn't raise his hand on an innocent child, but she could not know that.

Javert took his hat and ventured out. While he was gone, Cosette wrapped herself in the blanket she took off the bed. She wasn't sure if it was allowed, but she was cold. She assured herself that if she heard the man returning back on the stairs, she would return the blanket as it was. Soon, however, the comfortable warmth lulled her to sleep, and had the Saint Virgin Mary entered the room with the heavenly choir of angels with harps and trumpets, Cosette would know nothing of it.

Javert found her like that upon his return, curled up on the bed. He ate a lit bit of and sat down on the bed, waiting for the girl to wake up. Even in her sleep the child reached for him and clutched to his coat like a drowning man would grasp on straw of grass.

When Cosette woke up, the light had already faded away and there was no candle lit, only the waxing half-moon illuminated the room. Javert, sensing her movement, spoke to her quietly: “I've brought you some dress to wear, and food to eat.”

Cosette slipped out of of the covers and proceeded to change clothes, while the Inspector turned his face away not to see what should not be seen. After that, she ate the small supper which had been brought. Soon after that she fell asleep again, too tired to express her gratitude.

Javert watched her for a moment, and then settled himself on the floor, using his coat as both sheet, and blanket, head rested on his elbow. He fell to slumber fast.

When he woke up, the sun was still far below the horizon. There was an unfamiliar presence at his side. Upon a closer inspection it turned out to be a little girl with matted hair who had crawled into his arms without any prior notice. Now she was clutching at his shirt the same way baby apes climb to the fur of their mothers. Despite being wrapped in a blanket, she was shivering.

With a weary sight Javert stood up and put Cosette back on the mattress of the bed. But when he wanted to return to his place, he found that the girl was refusing to let go, asleep as she was, she was holding on him tightly. He attempted to open her fists, finger by finger, to set himself free, but to no avail, as it resulted only in Cosette grasping on his thumbs instead. Javert observed the situation, and finding no way out of this predicament he only frowned and laid down next to Cosette. Soon she snuggled her little head under his chin and stopped shaking.

  
  


The following morning, Javert did not comment on that Cosette had been sleeping in his arms, and both of them were grateful for the topic not being brought up, although each for completely different reasons. The breakfast consisted of a cup of water and a slice of bread with cheese for each. After the breakfast, Javert produced a comb out of one of the many pockets of his coat and sat Cosette down in a heroic attempt to put her hair in order. Cosette had to comb her hair herself for as long as she remembered, and usually had had no time to do so, working herself to the bone in Thénardiers' inn. Javert's care wasn't the gentle one of a mother, but harsh with many tugs on the scalp when he encountered and especially tangled lock of hair or a tough knot. But the girl didn't cry out, not even once, and waited patiently on the edge of the bed without a dingle word until the very end.

Once finished, Javert led Diana out of the stables and they continued their travel to Montreil-sur-Mer. The mare was steadily trotting on the hard way, Javert held the reins at ease, and Cosette was clinging to him, dressed in her new dress. The dress wasn't in fact new, they have seen many wear and tear before, and it was a bit too large for her, but it was the best and newest dress she remembered having, and it was beautifully blue which pleased her a lot. She'd never had anything blue before.

When Creil was good two miles behind them, Cosette looked up. “Monsieur –“

“I am no Monsieur, child. Call me Inspector, or Javert if you must.”

“Umm... Inspector, you seem to have forgotten your hat.”

“Ah, that seems to be true. I suppose I have left it in a shop yesterday. No use returning for it now.”

Because Cosette had the selfishness that is own to all youth and children and because she did not know Inspector Javert well at the time, she questioned it no further. A person more thorough acquainted with Javert and his habits would however know that while the Inspector would not lie to save his soul, he would also not always speak the whole truth if he thought the person on the receiving end didn't need to know it. An observant mad would have noticed that Javert said he had left the hat behind, but not that he had forgotten it, and additionally he had never said why was it no use for returning to it, as a good shopkeeper would happily return a hat to a customer, especially a man of the police of which they would gain a small favour or at least they'd think so.

Readers prone to deduction and analysis have probably already figured out the whole, and as such are advised to skip the following paragraph, unless they wish to compare their conclusions to the full story which is to be revealed here to satisfy the curiosity of the others:

When Javert had left the room the previous evening, he had been aware of two things; that Cosette was in dire need of a proper clothing lest she was at risk of a grievous illness, and because Javert was entrusted to retrieve her and deliver her safely to a good care, entrusted by a criminal but still the duty was upon him, he could not possibly stand to it, and that he had no finances on him to cover such an expense. Yet, the matter of the girl's dress had been very pressing at the time.

To Inspector the most logical conclusion was to sell something of his personal belongings and for the money obtained provide Cosette her new clothes. The choice had fallen upon the hat for the simple reason that it was of his own belonging, unlike his equipment which was police issued, and that it was not strictly necessary, unlike his coat. At the time Javert had not considered to buy more then one dress for the girl, for as far as he had been concerned, any further provision for her was the matter and duty of the Montreil-sur-Mer orphanage, where in his eyes the child belonged, as she had no known living parent or other relative willing to take care of her.

 


	2. Two Sisters Care for an Orphanage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette does not let go. Backstories of side characters nobody asked for and nobody but I care for.

The mare known at the police station as Diana arrived to her home stables late in the night. The two humans slid off her back, one was tall and rough and calm, the other was small girl foal scared of everything. Usually Diana would be afraid if she had to carry a scared human – humans were strong and intelligent, if a human was scared, then things were _bad._ But the tall human was not afraid and the whole time he was protecting the little human foal from everything dangerous. Additionally, the human foal had fallen asleep a few hours ago, shortly before it began raining so hard.

The tall human put the small human in the soft clean hay and began to dry Diana off, a thing she deeply appreciated, as she hated being soaked to the bone. In the next box, Hercules, a very fine looking but a bit too young stallion if you asked for Diana's opinion, woke up from his slumber and neighed a soft greeting. Diana replied, equally quietly as not to wake the human foal. Once she was dried and groomed clean, the tall human gave her fresh oats and brought her water, and then he picked up the small human and carried her away. Diana was so tired that she fell asleep before she could bid them a proper farewell.

 

Javert brought Cosette to his small rented apartment, which was nothing but two rooms of a very Spartan design – the smaller served as kitchen, the larger as bedroom, but they were almost equal in size, and from the fact that the porter was renting five other apartments like this in the same house it is clear to the reader that the space occupied was rather small. There was a bed, into which man of Javert's height could fit only when he curled around himself like a dog, and an armchair offering as much comfort as a pew.

The Inspector put the still sleeping girl down on the bed and covered her with the thin blanket. This time she wasn't clinging to him so strongly, so he was free to get up and change into his nightshirt, take the spare blanket from the chest by the window and set himself to sleep in the armchair. For all his exhaustion, however, the sleep had avoided him for time long enough to reflect the events of the day.

He made it clear to Cosette that her mother had passed away of sickness, although he had left out the details of the circumstances in which it had taken place. He had expected many reactions – tears, denial, screaming, guilt and blame, maybe even a little fight. He had steeled himself for it. What he hadn't expected was a long silence and then a quiet “Oh. I see.” From that Javert had concluded that Cosette didn't remember her mother much if at all. After that he had explained to the girl she would be living in the orphanage from then on. “It is much safer and better for you than growing up on the streets,” he had said. What he hadn't said was that even the streets would be better than growing up in _Au Sargent de Waterloo._ Had Cosette known the difference between the options, she would have thought the same. The way it had been she had only held tighter on Javert, her head hidden under the three half-capes to protect herself from the rain.

So there they were, in his small apartment in the dead of the night, Cosette fast asleep, Javert tired to the marrow of his bones, and if it wasn't for the five busy minutes he'd spent with the towel, he'd be just as soaked with rain. Outside the sleet didn't seem to have any intent to come to an end or at least become somewhat lighter. On the horizon, there was lighting, but thunder was not yet to be heard.

Cosette woke up a few hours later, not properly rested, but afraid of the thunderstorm that broke out above the town. In her dream madame Thénardier was chasing her with a large stirring spoon, the one for sauce which had a hole in the middle and with which it hurt more, and was throwing earthenware pots at her. Whenever there was a thunder, that was when a pot missed Cosette in her dream and shattered on the ground. The more pots shattered, the more furious madam Thénardier was with her. “You little viper, you leech! You are breaking my pots” she was screaming at her, and she was still after her. And just when she was only a hair's width from grabbing Cosette by the wrist, the girl woke up.

For a while she was shaking and looked around the room in search for her pursuer. When she couldn't find her, only then she allowed herself to be amazed by the unknown room in which she had appeared. In the dark night sometimes illuminated by a strike of lighting, everything seemed black and white with an eerily blue touch to it. There was the bed in which she had found herself, a dresser and a small chest next to the only door, a desk with a half burnt away candle and chair by the closed window without curtains, and an armchair. There were no pictures or other decorations, not even a vase of flowers. Cosette, who was more often than not sent to clean rooms after guests in Thénardiers' inn had seen prettier places to live, although never had she personally spent a night in one.

In the armchair was halfway sitting and halfway laying Inspector Javert, his too long legs drawn up to his chest, wrapped in a thin blanket that was too small for a man of his size. The sound he was making in his sleep was not snoring and it also was not whistling, but it was very close to both. In the darkness of the room he seemed scarier and angrier and more ruffled than usually, but Cosette wasn't afraid of him, she had left that fear behind the moment he had told her he had come to take her away.

Still shaking from her dream experience, Cosette crawled out of the bed and into the Inspector's arms. He woke up, but not fully, only looked at her, mumbled something incomprehensible and shifted in the armchair so the little girl could make herself comfortable on his chest. Immediately after that his head lulled to side and the quiet whistled snoring, which could be barely heard over the rain, filled the room.  
  


The morning found them both in a somewhat more plausible if a bit aching shape. As previously mentioned, the armchair was the peak of discomfort, more so because it was expected to be comfortable while it wasn't, and spending a night in it took a toil on Javert's spine. Cosette, who was used to sleep in much worse conditions, didn't say a word of complain about her stretched neck.

After a light breakfast Javert stated that it was time for Cosette to see the orphanage. At that, the girl, who hadn't talked much anyway, fell completely silent. The whole walk there she said nothing, she didn't even looked around to marvel at the clean and neat streets of Montreil-sur-Mer, she didn't admire the dolls, flowers and laced dresses in display windows of shops. She was holding tight on the hem of Javert's greatcoat, and whenever she felt a gaze upon her, she attempted to hide behind the Inspector.

The orphanage was a large building with a small garden, both neatly ordered, the walls were a pristine white and the curtains were shining clean. It wasn't a place where one would search for familiarity and closeness, but it wasn't a place of misery either, a rare sight in those times. The nun who was taking care of the garden, and her sister watching over a couple of young children, younger than Cosette, were both of an ascetic figure and a warm yet reserved smile of a woman who is content she is doing the Lord's work and that she is doing it well. Their names were Sister Maria and Sister Joan and they both were very faithful to their work.

Sister Maria was a very ordered young woman who had three times unsuccessfully sought for a husband and on the fourth try she had found the Lord. Sister Joan had never had the opportunity to stand at the helm of the ship of her life, and her decision was to at least enjoy the ride as much as she could. As such, she was very free spirited for a nun, and despite being a faithful and true bride of Christ, she had, as very polite people had put it, embraced her inner child. As such, each of the sisters did what suited her the best in the orphanage – Sister Maria had placed upon herself the role of the caretaker, while Sister Joan worked with the young and unruly children. Both excelled at their work and both could be proud of their performance and achievements without a sin.

When they saw Javert approaching them, they smiled at him. Sister Maria grimly, as a busy woman who thought that with a police Inspector no good news could ever come, Sister Joan happily as a child delighted to be the first to greet a visitor to the house. She even gave a happy little wave.

“Good morning, Inspector,” Sister Maria stood up from the ground and brushed her knees clean of the dirt. “What brings you here?”

“Good morning, Sister. It is a matter most urgent. This child has recently lost her mother, father she has never had. I was entrusted to see that she is brought to good hands.”

Cosette was still holding tightly on Javert's coat, hiding herself behind his back. Sister Joan, who meanwhile came closer to see what the matter was, noticed her only because she peeked around the Inspector.

“Oh hello there, little one,” she smiled at the girl. But Cosette remained unresponsive, and if it was possible for her to sink into the wool of the coat, she would have done so. But Sister Joan was not of the lot whop give up a fight. “Come here, dear, you'll be taken good care of.”

“Well then, Cosette, go.” From Javert it sounded like a command, and indeed it was meant as such. But much to her own surprise, Cosette decided to disobey. She did not let go off the coat, she did not come to Sister Joan. For it was for the first time she could remember when her name was spoken to her without anger or malice. It was also for the first time, as she had just then realized, that the Inspector called her by her name.

For a moment they all stood there motionlessly like statues. Then Sister Maria looked up to Javert, she was a woman of small figure and had to look up high, and said: “I am afraid Inspector that for now she is too afraid of other people, a sight not uncommon in children who were treated worse than harshly and violently. Sadly as it is, it would be bad for to come now to the orphanage to people she does not know and where children love to express their feelings physically.”

Then there was silence, and finally Javert spoke, his voice rough: “The orphanage cannot take care of her then?”

“No, Inspector,” Sister Maria shook her head, “you have misunderstood. We can take this poor child into our care. But the care for her would not be good.”

That made Javert to reconsider his plan for Cosette. After all, the child was supposed to go to good hands, to be raised well and avoid crime in her life. Finding himself in a dead end, he reluctantly did what was necessary – he sought wisdom from someone else. “What do you propose, sisters?”

Sister Joan, who has been silent for now and reflecting on the situation and also observing Cosette clinging to Javert, spoke slowly: “I think it a good idea for you Inspector to take care of her.”

“I?”

“She seems to like you.”

Javert hesitated. Could it be? People trusted Javert, in the way they trusted cannons or knives. He was known to be a reliable and useful man. But liked? Never! “But I know nothing of rising a child!” he exclaimed at last.

“It does not have to be forever. A week, perhaps a month, until she calms down. Then you can bring her here. I am not afraid to assume it would be the best course of action. Save, of course, for finding her a new family.” Sister Maria nodded her head once, twice, and then returned to her gardening. From then on she was certain that Sister Joan could handle the situation.

“I would like to stay with the Inspector.” Cosette's voice was so quiet and shy that the other three had nearly mistaken it for a whisper of the autumnal wind.

Javert stood there for a long moment, unmoving. “Very well then,” he spoke finally. “I bid you farewell, good sisters. Come, child.” And with those words the strange couple, a feared Inspector of the police and a scrawny fearful child left the orphanage the same way they had come in.

Sister Maria looked at Sister Joane and they both smiled at each other, and the later patted the first's hand. “Well, that was most peculiar, wouldn't you say, sister?”

 

It was Thursday that day, the only day of the week when Javert could allow himself not to come to work, as it was his assigned day to be free of duty. The most of working people have free Sundays, but because the crime was indifferent to holy days and Sundays alike, the policemen were assigned their free days in such a manner that there were always guards and officers of peace in the streets, which meant that there had to be some of them who worked on Sundays as well.

Inspector Javert did not mind working on Sundays as he did not visit the church. To him the God was the law and his work was the only mass and prayer he had ever known. And so his free day became Thursday, which he usually worked thorough anyway.

Today was, however, very different, because his apartment needed accommodations to host Cosette, if only for a short time. All manners of sorting, moving, figuring out and improvising had to be made. And thus Javert for the first time in his years of service at the police took his free day.

A straw mat appeared in the main room, supported by wooden planks, as not to rest plainly on the ground. Later that evening there was a very tangled knot of confusion, as both Javert and Cosette assumed this new bed would belong to themselves, not to the other one. This unspoken argument was solved when Javert simply picked Cosette up by her shoulders and carried her to his old bed, and Cosette was too diffident and baffled to say a word of protest.

Nevertheless, the night had found her infallibly and predictably again clutched to Javert's chest. The man was woken by it, of course, but he did not say anything, and moved only so much as to put a blanket over the child.

Idly he wondered how it came to this. He never gave a _promise_. It wasn't even expected of him to take the child away. He was never meant to take care of her, not even for a short period of time. Yet there he was, the girl holding tight on his nightshirt and his hair. She was resting peacefully, and in the shadow of the moon, Javert could have sworn he even saw her smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, maybe? Feed hungry inky gremlin?


	3. The Inspector's Extraordinary Headwear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If not in the orphanage, where does Cosette fit in Montreil-sur-Mer? How do Javert's superiors react to him taking a care of a young girl?

The morning of the following day proved itself difficult. In Javert's imagination it was that Cosette would stay at his apartment while he would be at work. With that Cosette had subtly and wordlessly disagreed, clutching to him close and refusing to let go. The Inspector didn't raise his voice or his hand at her, such a thing was not in his nature, and he did not say a word of threat, as he wouldn't say what he didn't mean and he would not hurt a person who, all things considered, didn't do anything wrong.

Soon it became clear that it was impossible for Javert to leave the apartment without Cosette. She was instructed to keep close to him, which was not necessary to say at all as she had no intentions to let go off him or his coat, and not to get into his way, but she was allowed to stay with him thorough the day, even as he worked.

The very first thing Javert did every day when he was working regular patrols was to go to the station where he read the latest reports at the desk. Cosette was very quiet and he soon forgot that she was there with him at all. The other men of police who wandered around them wondered who this little girl was, of course, but when they tried to ask her, she was too shy to reply and always hid her face in Javert's coat. The policemen knew better than to interrupt the Inspector going over the reports unless it was something serious. Nevertheless, the overall curiosity about the scrawny girl with brown hair and blue dress sparked a talk thorough the whole police station. Soon the men agreed with Sergeant Mullain that the child was most likely a key witness to a gruesome crime.

Montreil-sur-Mer was only a small town at the time and had not a Comissiare of the police. Instead the men of the law were subordinates to Principal Inspector Amelleard, an older man in the habit of waking late and working even later into the night. A word had it that his mother was an owl and his father a tomcat, for he was more of a creature of a night, with one eye eerily glowing and large, and the other turned blind in the one thousand and one fights he tore apart. He was a hard man to spot in the crowd, for he was neither tall nor short, neither obese nor angular, his hair was of nether colour, only his one healthy eye's iris was the shade of brown which was yellow in direct light. A man as nocturnal as he was would be presumed of pale complexion by his reputation, but that could not be farther from the truth, for his grandmother came to France across the Mediterraean sea much against her will. He had great many virtues and his vices were just as numerous, for he was a mortal man. Among his men he was known for his sense of humour, short temper, love of rich food, and still being the romantic 20 years old stag in the heart.

For this, Principal Inspector Amelleard learned of Cosette past the noon when he arrived at the station, at the time the Inspector had already gone out into the streets and the young girl, as the policemen had reported, was trailing after him, her little hands holding tightly onto the hem of his coat, her little feet barely keeping up with his footsteps.

The Inspector, as it has been already mentioned numerous times, was a man of imposing height, fast pace when he was in hurry, and slow prowl when he was observing. Cosette, however, was not yet even seven years of age, and while she was used to everyday manual labour, the years of negligent in the regards of food and clothing had left her weakened and lacking endurance. She tired often and quickly. Yet, as she had been punished for mere resting or stopping in her work to catch a breath, she has learned to push herself thorough the pain and continue nevertheless, despite the damage to her health this had caused. Inspector Javert had noticed this, as was in his nature and training as an Inspector to notice all and every things, and thus when the young girl stumbled in her steps for the first time, he took her in arms and carried her instead.

Now I do not know whether you, my reader, have ever held a young child in your hands while working. Most probably you haven't so far taken this opportunity when it's been handed to you, but it is not entirely improbable that you have. If it is so, you know that even if you can hold the young person with only one hand, work of any kind requiring manual handling extremely difficult. Inspector Javert had found that out very soon, and as his work demanded both of his hands to be free, he had to seat Cosette on his back. The girl clutched to his hair, careful not to pull it too hard. For this Javert very soon had forgotten she was even there.

This was the order of things when the Inspector returned to the station in the early evening to write his daily report, as was his duty. Yet, before he could even reach this desk, a Constable stood in his way.

“The Principal Inspector would like to speak to you.”

Javert nodded curtly and took the flight of stairs to the Principal Inspector's office. He was not afraid the man awaiting him, rather he was strongly respecting his position of authority. In this regard, Javert was one of the few. The door was open, and so he entered without hesitation, bowing slightly in the door frame.

“Sir, you wished to see me?”

Principal Inspector Amelleard, who had his legs propped on the table and was smoking a cigar, grumbled something in the vague sense of that indeed he had asked for Javert and he had asked for him two hours ago.

“My apologies, sir. I was on the patrol. I am grateful for your patience.”

Amelleard stood up and circled Javert like a curious owl would look at a wolf, one predator acknowledging the other, but the former being certain of its superiority. “Surely you wonder, Inspector, why I called you here in my office,” he said slowly when he ceased his examination.

Javert, as a matter of fact, did not wonder about it at all, he hadn't even thought about it until that very moment. If Principal Inspector Amelleard wanted to see him, then he certainly had a good reason for it and would it reveal to Javert over the course of their meeting, such was Javert's reasoning. There was no use in mulling it over or wondering of the reason. However, saying such a thing might had seen disrespectful, and thus he remained silent.

Indeed, Amelleard was not keen on long silences. He gestured to Javert's head and asked: “And what is this?” His tone sounded slightly disapproving.

In that very moment, Javert was reminded of the child he had been carrying around the whole day, which had also explained his aching shoulders. Knowing well that a word from the Principal Inspector could not only land him in trouble but the little girl as well, he decided to appeal on the man's heart with a speck of humour. “That, sir, is my hat.” Which was not, strictly speaking, untrue, considering the blue dress Cosette was still wearing.

Principal Inspector Amelleard huffed in amusement and circled him once again to take a better look at the child. “A very unorthodox choice, this _chapeau_ of yours.”

“My name is Cosette,” Cosette said in a tiny voice. Despite his very rugged and battle-worn appearance, the Principal Inspector wasn't scaring her at all.

“Cosette,” Amelleard repeated. “A diminutive of Euphrasie.” He then smiled brightly. “My sister-in-law had niece named just like that.”

Javert, who did not bother with an attempt to comprehend how could Cosette be gotten out of Euphrasie as first names were a mystery to him, nodded. He knew nothing of the Principal Inspector's family, but Cosette reminding him of a relative meant the battle had been won already.

“You, Inspector!” Amelleard turned to him sharply all of sudden. “Do you realize that bringing this child with you to work could put it in danger? In harm's way? Do you realize it? I see you do. I believe that it was only for the necessity of it. But listen to me Inspector, shall any harm happen to this girl, and I mean _any_ harm you understand, when she is hanging on your lapels, then you are going to be in big trouble, and with me those trouble will only begin. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Good. Now, why haven't I still received your report? Well, don't just stand there like a badly sculpted saint, go and write it!”

“Yes, sir.”

  
  


Javert understood the point Princpal Inspector Amelleard had made – taking Cosette with him to work every day was very dangerous to her, and by extension to him as well. It was of importance to find another place for her to stay during the day. She refused to stay at Javert's apartment, for she longed for company, and already her opinion on the orphanage was known.

Seldom in his life had Javert felt true gratitude. But for all other flaws of the man, when Jean Valjean had lived under the false name in Montreil-sur-Mer, he made it so that the town public schools were mostly paid by the town, giving access to education even to children from families lacking in wealth. In another time or in another town, Javert would not have been able to pay for Cosette going to school, for the pay of a police Inspector almost everywhere was barely to make living from one day to another. But as it was, the police of Montril-sur-Mer was at the time paid a bit better, this being also a doing of the false mayor.

As it was, Cosette was enrolled into Motrei-sur-Mer elementary school. At first she was strongly opposed to the idea, as she was reluctant on letting go of Javert's coat, but the teacher, a kind man who was the living antithesis of Thénardier in every way possible, had soon convinced her otherwise with a picture book of fairy tales which he promised to her he would teach her how to read.

The elementary school of Montreil-sur-Mer was a small building with a little tower with clock which twice a day showed the right time, and for this tower it was speculated that it used to be a church of too-ambitious Hugenots, but whether it was true or not, nobody could tell. In all honesty, the real history of this building does not matter, as it stands no longer. In this school were only four rooms – two served as classes for the children, one was the office of the Principal where the teachers could also sit and prepare their notes between the classes, and finally the fourth room stored chalk, slates and books, broken chairs which, as the Principal hoped, he would find a free moment to piece back together, its corners full of dust and cobwebs. Alongside the Principal there was only one other teacher, and each of the men had a class of twenty-odd children.

Cosette's education was trivial. In this particular case, however, the word _“trivial”_ does not mean _“easy,”_ but it calls back to its old roots of the word _“trivium.”_ Trivium is that kind of education where three most fundamental subjects are taught: Reading alongside of writing, arithmetic, and religion. Only upon those three founding blocks of knowledge any additional education can be built, or at least so Principal Reidannet had told the children so at every opportunity he had.

Cosette was an eager pupil. After the first week of anxiety she was looking forward to every day of school, she readily did her homework, and often she asked questions after the class has ended. At first she struggled at school, because she had come to it half a year late, but very soon she proved her intelligence when she caught up with her peers. This breaking point was most notable in late January of the following year when she, only slowly and syllable after syllable, read Javert's morning newspapers to him, but she had read them out loud nevertheless.

At first the both he Principal and the teacher found it strange that Cosette had no last name. The girl herself did not know any of her parents at all, and while Javert had met Fantine, Cosette's father he had never met and who that man was he did not know and considered it futile to search for him, as there were no leads he could follow. “Besides,” he had said, “I know the types like him. Had I found him and returned Cosette to his rightful care, he'd cast her right out into the streets, where'd she grow like thorny undergrowth in woods.” That was not helpful to finding Cosette's surname at all.

For two weeks the teacher, whose name was Pirecarque, had the girl in his book as Euphrasie Javert. Then the Inspector found out, and while it was never mentioned again, Monsieur Pirecarque and Inspector Javert had not been on speaking terms ever since.

The other day, in was a beautiful day of early spring, Inspector Javert and Segeant Mullain were walking past the school, side by side discussing important work matter, when they encountered schoolchildren with Monsieur Pirecarque and Principal Reidannet who had decided to break the school routine and take the children outside so they could learn about the flowers of the spring. Noticing the blue dress in the crowd of young pupils, Mullain nodded to Javert: “Ah, there she is, your _chapeau,_ the extraordinary hat of yours.” To which Javert replied: “Indded, there she is.” And because both Pirecarque and the Principal overheard this quiet remark, in silent agreement of all parties included Cosette's full name was from then on in all books and papers stated as Euphrasie Chapeau.

For a better understanding of reactions of those who had met Cosette in those years she had spent in Montreil-sur-Mer as well as of those who had met her later, it is in order to explain why had sergeant Mullain described her as extraordinary. Growing up with Thénardiers had left the girl with what could be call by a well-meaning person a quirky behaviour. At the same time she was shy and afraid of her own shadow as well as she was hardworking and strongly foul-mouthed. Especially the latest had caused problems in the school at first. It took Javert a lot of patience and explaining, of which a lot was the phrase “Because that is how it is.” in one form or another, to break her out of the habit of spitting curses and cusses which would put every sailor to shame. His case wasn't really helped by the fact that when in particularly strong distress, Javert's language was very far from clean itself. A compromise was reached in the form of equivalent exchange: If Cosette could make her mouth behave in public, then Javert would teach her to read the night sky, a skill he himself had learned from sailors in Toulon.

Another extraordinary thing was Cosette's knowledge in law. Javert was only partially to be blamed for it; while he himself had not spoken with Cosette on this matter, he hadn't restricted from reading the few books he owned in his apartment, for it didn't occur to him that anyone could hold a passion for reading strong enough to make them read books on law, most of which could compete with the Holy Bible in size. When this subject was brought to Javert's attention by Principal Reidannet, the Inspector bowed his head and said: “I will find easier reading for her, then. Something in laymen terms.” Later that night Riedannet and Amelleard got very intoxicated together.

At last Cosette's quirkiness was cause by Javert's approach to what no person in their right mind would call parenting to his face. All he knew cam from his mother which he did not like to remember, and of those memories all were foggy with time and dusty with lack of use. He was a strict father figure to Cosette, not by controlling her, but because once he had spoken his mind on a rule in the household or Cosette's behaviour, he considered it a thing which was no longer to be questioned. There was also the question of Cosette's clothing. Javert's situation did not allow him to spend money on a new wardrobe for the girl. He knew his way around needles, despite he was no tailor, and he was able to make her a set of outfits from scraps of cloths he had found or bought by spared change, and on one particular occasion when she was in need of white dress, from his own shirt.

Every morning he brushed her hair and braided them, so it wouldn't get in her way. More often than not he braided a colourful ribbon into her locks, so she would feel prettier and less shy. Then they ate a little breakfast, the Inspector took Cosette to school and he himself went to the police station. Cosette was finished with the school in the early afternoon, so she played a bit with her classmates and then went home where she tidied the apartment and prepared dinner. Javert returned from work at late evening, sometimes when his duties required it, he hadn't come home for a whole week. In such a case, however, he would tell the girl beforehand.

His colleagues from police had been known to remark to each other that the Inspector's attitude had changed suddenly overnight, that that he was working like a man for whom someone is waiting at home.

This routine was happily accepted by all for four years and half. It was brought to a sudden halt when one summer morning Principal Inspector Amelleard, who had stayed at the station overnight, stopped Javert as soon as the later entered the door and demanded to speak with him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reidannet, being the opposite of Thénardier, is actually Thénardier written backwards (Reidarnéht) and then butchered beyond all recognition. With the exception of the middle "r" it should be read the same. I wanted someone to point that out, but I was afraid you'd miss it, so I did it myself.


	4. A New Toyshop Opens in Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was Jean Valjean doing the whole time? Read and you shall find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively called Waiting For Godot.

The reader will allow me to take us three and three quarters of a year back, far from Montreil-sur-Mer, far from Paris, far from Montfermeil. The time was 17th November, the year of our lord 1823 and the ship Orion, named after the constellation of the Hunter, was being repaired in Toulon with the help of the Toulon galley prisoners. I say help as if they offered it out of their good will and kindness of heart, but it is only because the language has for years been woven in such a manner that it would conceal all that the mankind does not like to trouble itself thinking about, in this particular case its own cruelty and bestiality towards other of its kin.

I assume that you, my reader, are familiar with what was to happen next in vivid details, so I restrain myself only to copying the short notice the Toulon newspapers released the following morning: “Yesterday a sailor was rescued from grave danger by a prisoner on the ship bearing name _Orion_. The rescue was took place despite the risk of death from the prisoner and his bravery was witnessed by countless people gathered in the port. At the pleas of both the sailors and guardsmen standing by, the man was released out of his sentence and regained his freedom. In the index of the Toulon prison he was known as number 9430, and his name is Jean Valjean.”

In other men this might had inspired hope, but Valjean did not allow himself to hope or desire for a better future. He became bitter, a hermit crab in a rough coarse shell, a stone in a garden which never warms under the touch of curious fingers and in which shadow nothing grows. That is not to say he became an unkind man, only unfeeling one. He still offered his help to all who seemed to be in need of it and to those who asked for it. But there were no words of gentleness, and the place in his heart which once upon each act of magnanimousness filled with childish joy was now cold and hollow abyss. Jean Valjean kept to the good out of habit of his body, but not because of the conviction of his mind.

For half a year he roamed aimlessly thorough the France countryside, taking all work that he could, as he had nearly no coin to his name. The half a million francs he had gained as Madeleine had, to the surprise of nobody, fallen into the hands of the state after his imprisonment.

It is said that all roads lead to Rome, but Valjean's lead him to Paris in which he arrived as the May began to fade into June. He did not found himself surprised by this turn in his life, as at the time it was a common belief for Paris to be the equivalent of a beach on which broken people and lost souls are washed up.

He roamed the streets until his legs felt too heavy and the afternoon too hot to continue. He sat down, and finding a lost piece of wood among the cobblestones, he decided to spends some time carving it into a small wooden horse. Soon he was covered with wood shavings and the animal could be easily recognized in his hands. He was so focused on his work that he did not notice a figure looming over him.

“I say, young man, how much for that piece?”

At first Valjean did not look up as he did not believe the man was speaking to him, but a polite tap on the shoulder lead him out of this mistake. The man standing above him was well dressed and older by Valjean by many years.

“I am not intending to sell it,” Valjean spoke slowly as he rose to his feet.

“And what, pray tell,” the man inquired, “do you intend to do with it?”

A shrug of shoulders. “I assume I'll just leave it here once it is finished. Presumably some children find it and take it home.”

The old man smiled. “I'll give you twenty francs for it once it is finished. I can wait right here until you are done with it. My grandson is going to love it, I am sure.”

Jean Valjean doubted it, but he sad back down to his carving and paid the wood all it's attention. Needless to say that the old Parisian gentleman did indeed wait by his side the whole time, leaning on his cane, and once Valjean had deemed the toy piece complete, the man exchanged it for twenty francs.

“Marius is going to be so happy for it. I say, there is nothing to bring a joy to little boy as a wooden horse, eh?” the man said instead of the farewell. Valjean had the inkling of the feeling that perhaps more than his grandson, the most happiness from the little toy had the grandfather himself.

But something in the man's act had lifted a heavy load of helplessness from Valjean's shoulders. He did not believe he would be able to continue to sell another toy for such a high price like it had just happened, but he could still make it a living. The tomorrow morning found him selling small wooden toys at a busier street where he had them displayed on a rug he had found. He slept in the streets or in small sheds he had found. Two weeks later he was able to rent a room to use as a store, and so he slept there. Half a year later his nimble fingers , eye keen for detail, and tools better than a half-dulled knife helped him to the room upstairs. He knew that if he was able to keep the profit at such a rate, he could buy the property in a couple of years, had he wished so.

It was a small place, the shop downstairs was full of shelves, now nearly breaking under the weight of toy pieces from unpainted wood which were indeed artfully crafted. The counter was also a working table and behind it on shelves were wooden blocks ready to be turned into toys and cans of paint. There were two large displaying windows and into each Valjean had put his biggest pieces of work. In the left was a wooden doll house complete with furniture. The furniture was so well done that in the miniature stove in the doll kitchen could be lit a fire, and so the dolls could be cooking themselves very small dishes, and the weaving loom was able to weave small rugs, and all rugs and carpets in the doll house were crafted on that weaving loom. In contrast to the house for doll made out of functional miniatures was the item in the right window. It was an open carriage, twice the size of the doll house. It was not enough to hold an adult woman in its seats, but three children could ride it – two as passengers and the third as their coachman. The chariot was in bright colours, the doll house only lacquered.

The room upstairs had a stove in which was as meant for cooking as it was for heating. Here Jean Valjean also stored his tools and materials for work. In an alcove hidden behind a worn curtain of thin white linen was a bed in which Valjean slept. There was a table besides the window and on it was a small flowerpot with a single flower of forget-me-not which refused to bloom no matter how well it was taken care of. It was the only decoration in this sparse yet cramped place of living, and Valjean cared for it as if it was a child.

Months passed, then years. In the drawer of the working table in the shop, Jean Valjean was keeping his yellow parole papers, in case anyone asked for them, but no one ever did but a very tired looking man with a missing forearm who did not introduce himself, but admitted to do minor work for the police. “Only a regular check up on the new salesmen around this part of town. There was a word that around this part of town gunpowder is smuggled. So unless you are planning to blow up the King's palace with that chess set, I'll be going. Your papers seem to be in order.”

Valjean measured the time only in his attendance to the church every Sunday morning. Over the course of the years he made a few acquaintances but now friends. His business was a mean of survival and nothing in his days brought him joy or sadness. He sought no company for himself and spoke only a little, and for that people thought him morose and children were afraid of him, even though he would give them a small toy for free if they seemed to want it but not able to afford it. He know himself to be a man who was waiting, but for what it was he knew not. For the peace of his mind he had convinced himself that he was waiting for death.

It was in the first week of November in the year 1827 when the calm waters of his waiting were suddenly stirred. There was someone in the shop, patiently standing in the middle of the room, not looking at the displays. At first, Valjean had not noticed this person, for they were very quiet, and only a movement of shudder of cold caught Valjean's attention from the corner of his eye.

It was a girl, Valjean supposed she was between ten and fifteen years of age, too grown to be younger but not developed in statue to be older. Yet, her face was of a woman more mature and experienced in the world. Her dress had once been tatters, but mended by a skilled hand and decorated with old ribbons and lace which had been found lost and forgotten. She had a bright blue handkerchief around her neck, and a faded black one on her head. From underneath it was showing a long braid of light brown hair with colourful ribbons entangled into it. The girl herself was not beautiful or even pretty, but in a two or three years she would be if she decided to take better care of her appearance. The girl was not speaking, only looking and waiting for Valjean to speak first, and although she was obviously very cold, she was not moving.

Jean Valjean sat down the nearly finished wooden puppet and came out from behind his working table which also served as the counter. “Are you looking for something specific, madam?”

The young girl only shook her head. “Not as a customer, sir. I was wondering if I could be of any assistance to you.”

Valjean looked around the shop. He was in no need of help, he had been having this shop for a little over four years now all by himself and never thought of getting any assistant. “And how could you help around me? You are too small to organize the shelves, too weak to bring in blocks of woods, and too unskilled to make toys out of them.

A shrug of her tiny shoulders moved her worn dress closer to the neck, this seemingly careless gesture calculated to keep her warm. “I am very good with sums, sir. I could do you accounting.”

He frowned. “I am good at that on my own.”

The child seemed to consider it and then with a sudden new interest she turned on her heel, she was wearing clogs and otherwise only woollen tights on her feet, facing the shelves. “You do not like painting, sir, do you?” Valjean admitted that she was correct, and so she continued: “I thought so, because there are paints behind you, but only the chariot in the displaying window is done in colours. Everything else, I assume, is too small for your large hands to paint. I could paint your toys for you sir, if you would have me.”

He rubbed his chin as he thought about it. On one hand, he did not want anyone's company, in the shop or outside of it for that matter, and he preferred the wood in its natural colours. However, it would be a pity for all the paint going unused, and the girl seemed in need of money. A lot was told about her character from the fact that she had asked to be employed, rather than turning to petty thefts, begging, or to the life of a gamin-girl living from sheer luck.

He had been silent for so long that the girl's shoulders sagged, but only a little as if she was expecting this outcome, and turned towards the door. Valjean cried out to her: “Where are you going?”

“Oh, I can see myself out just right. What use is to stand here if you will not give me work?”

“But I haven't said anything like that. I assume you are not in possession of your own paintbrushes,” Valjean reached into a drawer, where the brushes were right next to his papers, took them out and handed them to the girl.

She took them and then picked up a toy piece in the shape of a guardsman and sat with it behind the counter, where she painted it in bright colours. In that moment Valjean knew that his waiting came to an end.

“My name is Jean Valjean,” Jean Valjean said from his work. At that, the girl's head perked up with interest. “And what is your name, young girl?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sort of vague, but the man doing minor work for the police who requested to see Valjean's papers? That was Henri Gisquet, trying to hide from the administrative.


	5. Dust, Smoke, and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Javert and Cosette leave Montreil-sur-Mer and more absolutely unnecessary background characters which are going to appear exactly once are introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean's chapter was shorter, so here we are making up for this.  
> Also guys, Amelleard isn't a precious babe. He is just not an absolute trash.

“Sit down, Javert, don't stand there like s poorly used adjective,” Amelleard begam.

Javert sat down with a sense of dread. Whenever the Principal Inspector talked in this familiar tone, it meant something terrible was about to happen.

“I don't like to be the one bringing this to you, but you'd have to go over with me sooner or later. I've decided for it to be sooner, namely now.”

“Sir,” was all Javert could say to it.

Amelleard clasped hands, thought about what he wanted to say, and sighed. “The city council, namely mayor Gizzet, want to relocate some of the city funds. Or rather, cut them.”

“That will not do the town any good, sir.”

“I am afraid you are right, Javert. Especially given that their main focus is on giving less to the police.”

Javert knew this one from Paris. He guessed, although it wasn't a guess, rather assumption made from his experience: “This town is nearly free of crime, and thus l'Maire Gizzet assumes any investment into the police forces is a waste of good money which could be used elsewhere, I suppose?”

“That is nearly word to word what he had said, yes.”

“Is he aware that the low crime is to be thanked to the vigilant police work which the men will not be able to keep if our institution is not paid enough?”

Amelleard smiled, a sad weak smile which looked very out of place on his battle-worn face. “I tried to bring it to his attention.”

“Ah?”

“Monsieur l'Maire is not an attentive man.”

“Ah.”

“Javert... I have to cut the salaries for the men. No, no,” the Principal inspector raised hands just as Javert was taking in a breath to speak out, “I know you won't mind working for less money. I am aware that for you the pay is merely a bonus to bringing justice where it needs to be brought. Most of the Inspectors have, however, ah, another sources of income, let it be their spouses or business I wish to know nothing about. But I know that you have not. As much as your work is hard, and God is my witness you work harder than any other, as an Inspector you are not paid much, considering even the fact that the previous budged had been very generous. With this cut, you on your own could make it, barely, but you could. I know how austere your life is. But you could not possibly make a living for yourself and your daughter.”

Javert, who didn't think the God a reliable witness, mumbled: “A protégée.” He had to make this correction numerous times over the course of years.

“Right, your protégée, your hat, does not matter, it is all the same. Cosette, the girl you take care for. This new salary can feed three quarters of a mouth at best, definitely not two.”

Javert's expression was stoic, not indicating any of his inner worries. None of them were for him, most of them were for Cosette. He had been expecting this to happen for the last year and half, but secretly he hoped it would not happen. “Sir?”

“You are not the only one I'm having this talk with, Javert. Not even the first one today. Most definitely the toughest, because you I'm hating to lose. I have already written a letter to the Paris prefecture, as well as I wrote to your patron, Chaboulliet, and also put your papers in order and added a recommendation. I hope you all excuse my grammatical errors.” Amelleard had worked his way up from not exactly the gutter, but his formal education was not better than Javert's, and even worse for his lack of self-dedication to improve it himself.

He rose from his chair and made a short walk to the only window in the room and back. “You are reassigned to Paris. They should be expecting you in the week's course, but I think you will be there as fast as humanly possible.”

“Yes, sir. I will try my best not to disappoint.” The Inspector stood up and made his leave.

“That would be a tough thing to do. And Javert?” Amelleard cried out to him as the man was nearly out of the door, hand on the handle to close behind hmself. “This is _not_ a sign of your failure. If anyone had failed here, it was the society. Is that clear? Do not judge yourself guilty of leaving this town.”

That evening Javert and Cosette packed what little they had of belongings to set out for Paris the following morning.

Out of the faithful policemen of Montreil-sur-Mer, Amelleard was the last one to leave, five years later. Later he had described that experience in the following words: “It was as if I was a statue of a faceless saint in an opulent cathedral which was ransacked and then left forgotten. I watched as the pews burned, as the pillars crumbled. As the once beautiful place around me was turning to ashes and dust and cold light of the outside was pouring in, I could only stay without a movement and watch. The monument to humanity, kindness and justice became only a feast to rats.”

  


Javert had served in Paris for a couple of years before. He didn't like it. In his opinion it was a too big a place to take care of, no matter how hard everyone would try, there _would_ be failures. Not to mention that Javert had long lost his conviction that everyone was an ideal person performing their duties at their very best. And even an ideal person could get sick, slip on an icy pavement and break their leg, or just suffer stroke, all of that rendering them incapable of work.

What could work, maybe, would be smaller communities, somewhat smaller than Montreil-sur-Mer, they would be similar to cells in one bigger organism, and each of these cells would have it's own system of regulation, or better three of them – the clergy for the law of the God, the magistrates for the law of the, uh, People, and finally the police for the law of the Justice. Their inner hierarchy shouldn't be higher than three-tiered, because anything more is only for rendering paperwork. Javert hadn't though it much further than this point, because at this point he had always gotten a mother of all headaches, so much for waking up at three in the morning and hoping to fall asleep again.

Cosette was the very contrary of Javert's own feelings. She fell in love with the city the moment she stepped out of the carriage. During her years in Montreil-sur-Mer she had outgrown her learned shyness, and instead she took every opportunity to socialize. In her case it meant playing in the streets with children, usually boys. Crowded avenues and alleys of Paris had her enchanted.

The apartment they rented is a little bit bigger than the one they had left, but so were the bedchambers of most of the maidservants.

Although he had worked in the Paris forces before, it had been a rather long time, long enough for old colleagues to forget and newcomers not to remember and not be told. Thanks to Amelleard's recommendation of Javert's services, however, the Inspector did not have to start his career in the city from the scratch. Which was just as well, because at this point in his life, Javert knew usually better than the people who would be his superiors. He'd let them to command him around, they were his superiors after all, but he'd feel guilty for thoughts of insubordination and even worse for bad outcomes of the decisions his superiors would make.

It has probably already come to the reader that Inspector Javert was a very exceptional man in the rank of the police from what has already been said of his performance in Montreil-sur-Mer, but it is vital to emphasize it, for you to fully understand the story. It is imperative to understand how important the police work was to Javert and how much his approach to it differed from the one of his colleagues. Many had said that Inspector Javert was devoid of all and any religion. Those who had said so had most possibly never seen the Inspector besides regular patrols in the streets. Javert's belief did not lay within the God, not even within the police, although he would never disrespect his superiors. No, to Javert there was only the law, the great construct of the men which brought order to the mayhem of the world. Law was all that stood between the mankind and the animal bestiality, and Javert had placed upon himself the duty to uphold and maintain the law at all cost. Once a Sergeant put on duty to assist the Inspector with an arrest of an especially vile murderer had stated: “The look in his face was that of John the Blind of Luxembourg at the battle of Crécy. Such a fierce resolution and devotion to cause is rare to find in a man.” From that it can be easily assumed that Sargent Mullain was a man of a surprising interest and insight into history.

This kind of zeal, although in much smaller in measure, was to be found only in two kind of men; old men of cloth upon their grave, and young fresh constables of the police. In both their conviction would be doused by time, alas in the former in much more permanent manner. But in young member of the police if the flame of devotion and dedication to the law is properly tended to, it may be significantly doused by the life hardships, but never extinguished fully. When Javert entered the police forces of Paris, he took four constables in his training, as such a job, although not paid well, was a significant rise to his income, and because it was Javert, it was against him not to train the young constables well and to his image of duty. I due time the four small flickering candleflames would burst into a pyre of justice. The constables do not play any significant part in this story and the dear reader could do only with their names, but for the sake of completion, they deserve to have said something about them:

The youngest of the lot was Constable Sabelle. He came out last of six brothers and because he also had six uncles from his father's side, he was teased to be a bewitched child. How much truth the stories held is not for me to judge, but it was certain that the most unusual things happened to and around him, both the fortunate and the less so. For his presumed witcher heritage he often found it difficult to talk to people and so he kept himself more to animals. He was especially fond of black cats and dogs, which didn't help to extinguish the rumours, and they loved him in turn for his black hair and pockets full of treats.

Constable Enzo was the very contradiction of Sabelle. Where Sabelle was small and quiet boy who kept to the corner, Enzo was large, loud and the centre of all attention. Enzo's family came to France from the northern Italy during Napoleon's reign, and he was true to his roots. His true passion, however, wasn't the police work, he dreamed of joining the Navy in spite of his father's wishes. Most of the people remembered Enzo for two things – for his large and strong build, which put many ugly fights to a quick end, and his frequent cheerful laughter, often said to be descending upon ears like a mountain avalanche.

The oldest of the newbies had a name, but nobody had bothered to learn it or to remember it, and he was called Ginger by everyone. It was not for his hair, which was blonde, but for his habit to eat every piece of candied ginger he could set his eyes upon. His tongue lashed and stung much like the very root spice he was so fond of, and his eyes were clever and piercing. He grew up with gamins on the street, and as such had already experience as an informant, and also had a network of rumours and gossips and information going in and out. It was an excellent machination, because he was in control of what information would travel from the police to the streets, when it was happening and how. It is worth of mentioning that Ginger was close to his thirties and he was a repentant pickpocket. He had chosen to leave his unfulfilling career after a police Inspector had broken his arm as Ginger about to search thorough the man's pockets. Ginger's first words to Javert when they were officially introduced were: “I believe that we are somewhat acquainted.” Constable Ginger was a heavy man which was the only reason Javert hadn't defenestrated him, as much as he wanted to.

Pierre-Pierre was a young man of unsure and very mixed origins. His family was large and scattered all over the world. He was certain he had some roots in India and China, but also that he was born a Frenchman and that his aunt lived in America overseas. He had a bit of every nation in himself, a bit of every blood and culture. There was nothing he wouldn't know at least something about, and there was no thing he knew everything about. His interests were just as changing as the weather. He had only one true passion and that was the theatre, and he even was an amateurish thespian himself, although the details he gave were only very vague. That was because his roles were always of the feminine nature, and he had never been seen on the stage in proper breeches, always in skirts. As it was, he quickly learned to excel in all kind of undercover work.

These men were called javerteers, although never to Javert's face. The name was a derivative of the police term javerteering which at the time meant volunteering for job without any consideration of personal risk of profit, because it was what Javert did, and because the policemen liked to pretend they had a sense of humour.

Besides these four nuisances, as Javert called the four men, the life in Paris was quite uneventful, or as uneventful as a life of a police Inspector and a child in his custody could only be at the time. Perhaps even _too_ uneventful.

Despite Javert's pay in Paris was not much lower than the one in Montreil-sur-Mer before all the necessary cuts due to the decreased police budget, it stood true that the city was far more expensive and had been lead with far less kindness. Cosette could no longer go to school – the tuition fee was simply too high for Javert to afford it, as much as he wished for Cosette to be educated. And thus every evening when he came back from work, he sat down besides her and for two full hours he taught her anything and everything he considered she needed to know. It was a very different education from the one a child could get in school. Javert's school was the one of cold streets and dark corners, hard cobblestones and broken lamp posts, but to Cosette ha gave it more caringly than any street ever would or ever could.

Only once, two years later, he had broken that rule. It was the week when the case of the Gypsy Slaughter, as _Le Figaro_ called it, was closed. It must be understood that despite the Romani people, of them some wear the name Gypsy with pride while other view it as highly offensive, were a peripatetic nation without land or borders, many of them had chosen a life of settling down in one place, whether out of necessity or comfort. It is known that these people came to the Europe from far east around India and in each country they had travelled thorough they stayed for a short while. The Prussians and Frenchmen, two of three most influential nations on the continent we honour with the title _The Cradle of Civilization_ , as mistaken as it is, called the Romani lifestyle _bohemian_ , because when they asked those joyous nomads where they were coming from, the answer they received was “From Bohemia.” Which was true, as it was the last country they had passed thorough.

At the edge of the city of Paris lived one such a community of settled-down bohemians who lived one day at a time, as is the way of their people. Their daily meal was poverty and disorganization, as is the usual outcome when the modern society pushes the Romani people to settle to one place and live by the rules of the idly standing instead of those of nomadic origins. These people were considered unruly outcasts and if anyone ever showed any kind of concern to them, it was the concern of getting them out of his or her sight as quickly as possible.

So it came as a surprise when an already overworked, morose Inspector of the Paris police began investigating the moment a dead body of a Gypsy prostitute turned out in a backstreet alley at the left bank of the Siene, her throat and abdomen butchered. More than the people of Paris, however, it were the Romani, because this officer of the law promised justice for the murdered woman. As he learned, her name was Zdenka, she was only seventeen years of age, despite looking much older and far more worn out by the life, and she left behind a newborn son and six of her siblings of whom she was the middle one. Profound investigation, many doors kicked open, many locks picked, many questions asked and too many nights out, the culprit was found: Monsieur Larezett, a man of moderate wealth and standing. Not rich enough to be the burgeois, not poor enough to be considered the working class, father of three exceptionally well behaved children of whom every single one suffered a stutter in their speech, once widowed, twice married. The wife was very shy and quiet, very hard working and modest, and by her own description very clumsy when the Inspector questioned the nature of her many bruises.

In the court, Monsieur Larezett and his defendant successfully founded their speech on the Romani people not bearing the French citizenship. “They are barely people,” Larezett had said during the first hearing. “Let alone fellow Frenchmen like you and I, Your Honour.”

Larezett walked out of the trial a free man, Inspector Javert then with his blood boiling and a glare which would murder if only it was legal.

That evening upon returning home Javert opened his trunk and reached to the very bottom of it, something he had never done before. Cosette watched him with curious eyes as he took out a deck of damaged and battered cards with pictures done in bright colours which were once vivid but had faded over the decades. For the whole week, Javert had been teaching Cosette to read – read the cards, read the stars, read other people's palms, read in the tea leaves. At the end of the week, whatever fire was fuelling his pain and anger seemed to douse enough, and he had never spoken of such mystic things again. Cosette thought it was a great shame, because she had been very enjoying these new lessons.

Cosette herself wasn't spending her days idly, although one would expect it. The first few days she had been exploring the city, as Javert's protégée she grew up to be observant and curious and she immediately wanted to know everything there was to know about Paris. However, to her watchful eyes it couldn't escape how much Javert began cutting his meals short, sometimes skipping the supper altogether. She asked no question, but she was fast to deduce their financial situation was nothing to be cheerful about.

As the responsible young woman she was, she had found herself a job as a helping hand at the toyshop across the river which was run by a rather gloomy Monsieur Jean. I do believe you, my dear reader, are familiar with the man, as we have talked about him at length the whole previous chapter. You may think that such a thing ought to wreak havoc, but you would be wrong. Inspector Javert made it himself a rule to never bring work home with himself as long as Cosette was under his roof; young children being easily influenced and learning their mature behaviour by mirroring the adults in their presence, Cosette had never spoken about her job to Javert besides the first day, when she told him: “I am helping Monsiour Jean in a toyshop across the river.” Jean is not an uncommon name, and across the river stood Saint Denis, which was as industrial part of the town as it held many craftsmen shops. As it was Javert's district to guard, he knew it to be mainly law abiding place with a couple of exceptions which required his constant vigilant attention.

And so it happened that Javert had not met with Cosette's employer face to face until he situation was of the most dire nature.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed comments to the inky gremlin writing this?


	6. The Hammer of the Almighty God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author gets slightly derailed from her previous direction, badmouths languages, and explains why Marius didn't stay in the Gorbeau house in this version of the story.

To move the story forward in a faster manner, I will assume the reader is familiar with the Friends of the Alphabet, or as they had called themselves in French: _les Amis de l'ABC_. As much as they were fond of women (they were all young boys after all) and their rights, there was no skirt among them. That was, until Grantaire had brought one in.

He was questioned, of course. “Who is this woman, Grantaire? What is the citizen doing in here? Have you gotten yourself a lady-friend?” And one by one the young man dismissed them: “Her name is Éponine, Feuilly, and your mama ought to teach you better to ask for a lady's name before you introduce yourself. She is waiting for Marius, so douse your shoes, Enjolrans, stop fretting like a ferret in the pantry. And she's not my lady-friend, she made that very clear when she hit me with her shoe, but I doubt you'd have any more luck than I had, Bossuet.”

But Marius was not coming for long and the young girl grew bored. As she had nothing else to do than sprawl on chairs and listen to the men debating the matters of state and freedom, she found herself soon enough arguing with everyone and anyone. She only wished to oppose, not to reach a conclusion. In one breath she was a staunch royalist and the most free-thinking of libertarians, bourgeoise, aristocracy and a street thief, proud nationalist and a citizen of the world. Grantaire, who was quietly observing, concluded three things of that:

Firstly, the girl was of sharp wits and tongue, sharp enough to put many of his peers to shame. He thought it a shame that the state of France in this state of being could not and would not accept a woman within the ranks of political power. Not publicly, anyway.

Secondly, she was of great neglect and education. In her was a great admiration of the company she had suddenly found herself in, yet the company looked down on her for what she lacked in knowledge of legal matters.

Thirdly, never before had anyone listened to her properly. Perhaps they had heard her speaking, given the volume of her voice it would be hard not to, probably their ears picked up the information she had said, but most certainly nobody had tried to understand what else she meant by what she was saying. But Grantaire, weighting all the words he had heard and said as his skeptical nature demanded, listened and understood: This girl was miserable and alone in a crowd of people, she wasn't listened to and she wasn't spoken to, not properly, not ever in her life. She made her living out of struggle and struggled to be a good person in a world where selflessness and kindness were punished with cruelty, starvation and betrayal.

Grantaire was not sure how he was feeling about such a revelation that had downed upon him and which everyone else had obviously missed. He was certain he could go thorough his life in the blissful ignorance, as it would allow him to live his life easily. But his conscience and feelings about the girl's situation did not allow for him not to care. And he had no idea what his feelings on the matter of the young woman and her situation were in the first place. Was it pity? Was it sympathy? Was it, perhaps, empathy? Was it that without realizing it he had recognized Éponine for the mirror in which he saw himself?

He was mercifully put out of his misery of thinking when finally Marius Pontmercy blessed the company with his presence. Darkly dressed and of gloomy face as they were already used to see him, he sat down three heavy vocabularies on the table by the way of greeting. He reached out for a sip of wine, fingers leaving smears of ink on the glass.

“There you have him, fair lady, your knight in shining armour!”

Éponine's cheeks flushed while Marius instructed Bahorel where exactly he can stick that eloquence of his. That was promptly followed by Feuilly: “As intriguing idea as that is, I am afraid it is anatomically impossible.”

There was a brief silence among the Friends of the Alphabeth, interrupted only by a drunk patron singing in the front room of the café. Even Grantaire thought that this was a bit too early to be drunkenly singing in public, moreso off-key.

“Perhaps you remember me, Monsieur. We were neighbours once. Your apartment was right next to ours,” Éponine spoke slowly and quietly. The youthful men with whom she had argue only moments prior were surprised to learn that her voice could hold such a melancholic gentleness.

“Alas, I do remember.” Marius opened the dictionary as well as his notebook and began warring with the German syntax. The German language is ever so peculiar and different from the French; where the Frenchmen worry only about pronouncing more letters than they absolutely have to, and even then they speak only half of the most necessary minimum, the Germans and consequently Austrians have to their wits above them at all times, as every other sentence places the verb at its end instead of the front. Not only it is challenging for the speaker, but it also requires a good memory from the listener, for otherwise they would forget what the whole talk was about before the most important word of action could be reached.

Éponine rose to her feet. “Indeed, so you do remember. You remember my father, perhaps?”

“That scoundrel?”

“The very same.”

“I wish I did not remember him at all. But as it is, I do remember him all too well.” This lack of sentiment had shocked the company, and I expect the reader to be taken aback as well. Because of the flow of the narration, I have successfully avoided describing what had transpired in the Gorbeau house number 50 or 52, pick whichever you like the better; and the story would have been a significantly happier tale had been these events avoided whatsoever. And yet, I would not be in the right to omit the truth, for the reader deserves to learn the story in its entirety.

  
  


When Marius Pontmercy found himself rid of all family connections, he had taken the cheapest housing he could find. And thus the Gorbeau house became his lodgings – one small room in a small attic, small and devoid of furniture enough that not even mice or rat lived there. The scravny gamin of the name Gavroche who sometimes milled about the place used to say: “'Tis an omen, guv. Them ratfolk be them first to leave the ship.”

Marius, who himself was the first to admit he was not of the brightest or fastest especially when his mind was occupied with something he considered more pressing in the moment, but who still was capable in his mind enough to keep average grades at worst in the law seminary all the while he lived a slip above absolute poverty, came to understanding from subtle hints and hidden meanings, that Gavroche was the son of Jondrette. Jondrette was a weasel of a man, and in Marius's judgement if Jondrette's morals were to ever become the standard of the human kind, the mighty Lord and creator, the Saviour, the Holy Spirit itself, they all could wrangle themselves a fancy noose and hang the whole triudiium from the apple tree in the south-east edge of the Lark fields. And for the record and good measure, if Jondrette's nostrils were to ever be even considered a mere possibility to become the standard of a modern sapient human, Marius would kill the Holy Trinity himself. Without any hesitation, but certainly with a hammer.

The young lawyer in making, who taught himself English and German in every moment he had spare, did not meant to pry, but Jondrette and his family lived next door to him and they were not exactly the quiet sort. If you were generous with your language enough and called what they did _living_. And if you had enough of imagination to call those flat obstacles preventing free walking from room to room _a door_. Nevertheless, Marius either had enough of imagination and generosity, or lack of better words to call them thus. It did not take a genius to figure out that Jondrette's mean of getting by was petty theft, shabby fraud, and cruelty executed by his wife upon others.

As it happened that the morning before the night when Marius had departed from the Gorbeau house, the young man came into knowledge of Jondrette's associates. Marius called them associates, as he was certain those men could not be friends to anyone, and not even he was generous with his language enough to call them _a gang_. He nearly walked into them when he was about to leave for the day, his attendance in the classes was of a great importance to him and he wanted to be on time. The hoodlums were blocking the hallway and the majority of them had their backs turned to him.

Their back enough was horrible even dressed for Marius to be glad he could not see their faces. They spoke in low voices, and while the empty staircase and plaster on walls reverberated the conversation loud enough to be heard, Marius found himself unable to understand them. They were speaking French, of that he was sure, and he knew each of the words separately on its own, but together the string of them wrung into a threadbare sentence made no sense to the young lawyer in making. He thought to himself that Jondrette's associates must had been from the provinces, but their accent was the one of men born and raised in Paris.

The men were blocking the hallway, however, and Marius did not feel brave enough as to disturb them or catch their attention at all. He returned to his room, locked the door and after a momentary thought, blocked the handle with an armchair. The armchair was only three-legged and it was a poor wickerwork, in such a state that Marius was afraid to sneeze anywhere near it lest it would fall apart. Because the Gorbeau house had no housekeeper, the apartments were dusty and Marius sneezed very often, enough that he was afraid of developing asthma in hi youthful years. Nevertheless, he used the armchair as an additional measure of security, and left the house thorough the window.

When he arrived to the class, he was on on time, and sat down next to Courfeyrac, the other man asked him: “Have you won?”

Marius blinked and stopped his writing in the middle of a sentence. “Excuse me, dear friend, I do not understand your meaning.”

“Your coat, Marius, your lovely coat. It is torn at the back and all dosty. Well, dustier than usual. Surely you have gotten into a fight, there is no other explanation I can find. Have you won the fight?”

Marius eye's widened and he drew in his breath sharply as a he finally understood what his friend meant: “Oh, you are greatly mistaken. It must have taken the damage when I was jumping out of the window. For shame, this is my best coat and I hate to see it harmed so.” And indeed, that was true, as it was not only Marius's best coat; it was his only coat also!

“Who is she?”

“Who do you mean? Courfeyrac, you are speaking in riddles!”

“Why would be a respectable student jumping out of a window if not leaving from his mistress in haste before her man returns?”

Courfeyrac was a bright man, but sometimes perhaps too bright for his own good, and he leapt to conclusions like a cheetah chases its prey – wildly and in hurry, delivering a devastating blow if he was correct, but missing the target in sixty percent in his method of trial and error. Marius knew this, as at that time he was translating a German textbook of zoology and just yesterday he came to his wit's end at the end of the Africa part.

With a groan of slight irritation, Marius briefly informed his friend of the events that had come to pass that morning. Courfeyrac was a good listener, and when Marius finished he said: “Those men were surely speaking in Argot.”

“Surely you jest, I have never heard of such a language.”

“It is not a language, yet it is. I- Oh, I will explain it to you after the class. Old Lebielle is looking at us, make a face as if you were paying attention and not talking to me,” Courfeyrac whispered as he straightened his back and began scribbling passionately in his notebook, but no actual letters came out of his pen.

And thus they continued later in café Musain: “Argot, dear Marius, uses to words of French, but does not use them like you and I. Words have different meanings as to confuse whoever would overhear them and was not meant to understand. Sometimes event he whole phrases have such a purpose. More importantly, it is not a way of speaking you desire to hear and be left assured that you do not want to associate yourself with people who speak it; it is the language of criminals!”

Such words frightened Marius greatly. He went home and many times he turned around to make sure he was not followed. He stood in an alcove on the last turn to his apartment for nearly twenty minutes, waiting for the shadow on the opposite end of street to move away, until he realized the shadow was casted by him. A stray cat knocking a loose half of a tile off the roof nearly caused his heart to stop! He didn't find the courage to enter to the Gorbeau house thorough the front door, surely his neighbours would hear him enter and dared to take his life or worse, and so he had to climb up a crate, then leap into the rusty grille of wrought iron where he stabbed himself painfully, as a stray dog rose had decided to make her home there and grew itself a great many thorns to ward off anyone who would dare to touch it.

Once he reached his window, he opened it and slipped into his room as quietly as he was able. He did not dared to lit a candle, as the light would alarm Jondrette and his associates to Marius's presence, due to that Marius learned that his coat came to complete ruin only the following morning.

The young man's paranoia was unnecessarily exaggerated, although not completely unfounded. Jondrette had long time ago figured out that Marius's purse and pockets both were home to only moths, and as such he had no desire to bother himself with the boy, unless he could use him as a device in one of his over-complicated schemes, and for such a thing he considered Marius too much of a whiny ninny. The latter judgement was caused mainly by Azelma's description of their neighbour. Yet, perhaps it was well for Marius that he entered the Gorbeau house unseen, because the conversation he had witnessed in the morning was the preparation for unspinning of a devious plan.

The reader might wonder: Why did Mrius not got to police? Why hadn't he said something? Marius had pondered this also and reached this conclusion: I have no proof were I asked for it. I have witnessed a lot, that much is true, but there is no one to back my claim. Were I to accuse the Jondrettes, it would be my word against theirs. Besides, he had two daughters and if Jondrette was found guilty, so would be his children, and the girls did not deserve the harsh punishment of a prison. Jondrette was a criminal of his choice, but his children were not.

He heard from the other room, as his lodgings shared a thin wall with the Jondrettes', a hushed voice: “Had the ninny returned yet?”

“No, father.” That was the soft voice of Éponine. “His door is still locked and the landlady saw no one coming in besides us.”

“Good. Then everyone, places! Soon the socks will be in the shoe, we ought to lace it tight!” Jondrette's voice was pitched as if someone had tried to strangle him. That was how he spoke when he was excited.

Then there was a lot of ruffling and footsteps of too many people who were trying to walk quietly and tiptoe too fast in a place too cramped for them to all fit into it. And then – silence!

Marius took off his shoes and only in his stockings he walked across his room. He was very afraid that the floorboards would creak under his weight in any moment, he was shifting his weight from toe to toe from feet to feet very slowly. His breath sounded as a storm to him, he was certain the whole house had to hear him as clearly as if he came in with a full marching band and fireworks. The way across the room was only four steps for him, but it took much longer than usual.

However, is caution paid off, he reached the wall unnoticed by anyone. There he sank to his knees and flipped off the piece of cardboard which obscured a peek-hole provided by a knot in the wood which had fallen out along with a piece of plaster. With his breath held tight, Marius sat his eye to it and looked to the other side.

As his eyes were already accustomed to the dark, he could make out the shapes in the other room almost immemorially, although the inly source of illumination was a brazier, to which Madame Jondrette from time to time threw half a shovel of coal- and sawdust and two or three pieces of coal or a piece of wood as big as her forearm. Jondrette's wife, at least Marius hoped she was his wife because the walls were very thin and he could not help himself but hear in the dead of the night even the things he wished he could not hear, was a big and broad woman and her forearm was no small business. How she had ever come to Jondrette was a mystery to Marius, perhaps it was the magnetic attraction of a brute strength to a brute brain.

In the back, nearly completely hidden in shadows, were four men standing. Jondrette was sitting on the floor in front of the brazier and his wife stood beside him. Éponine or Azelma was leaning by the window. Marius concluded it was Éponine, as he had heard her speaking and the other girl was nowhere to be seen. Stillness and silence, only the brazier was tended to, and even that not much, but it was kept from dying out completely.

And then there was a creak of the main door, vary footsteps on the staircase and wood creaking under someone's weight. Someone heavy, Marius guessed. Then the sound of panting, laboured breath and huff, and when whoever was breathing had calmed their lungs into obedience, they knocked on the door four times, quickly and sharply as if they were not a person used to waiting.

Éponine let the person in and hid herself behind the door. Marius noticed that when she closed it, she positioned herself right in front of them, there was no leaving without getting her out of the way first. If her raised chin was to be any indication, she was not going to leave her post, but the gleam in her eyes gave away that she would love to stand anywhere else but. If she could stand very far away from the house altogether, the better.

“Monsieur Thénar! I came here as soon as I could.” The high pitched voice could belong to a man as well as to a woman, but the shape of a top hat gave away the speaker was a man. His voice was smooth and he spoke clearly, yet his accent belonged into no place in whole France which Marious could name – meaning he was not from Paris.

“Very kind of you, Monsieur, very kind. But I am afraid to tell you, when I said earlier the wife was unwell, I was not really honest.” Jondrette slowly rose to his feet.

“Did you lie to me, then? You asked for my help and I offered it freely.”

“Did not lie to you. Just made you think I was speaking of my wife. But I was speaking about yours. Have you ever told her?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Beg as you wish,” Jondrette spat on the ground. “I know what a rat you are! With that little mouse of yours, the little Annie.”

“I do not know what you are speaking about, man! You are in your wrong mind. Perhaps you really need a doctor after all, but different kind of a doctor!” He was talking too quickly and the step he took back gave him away; he was afraid of Jondrette whom he had called Thénar.

“Oh, I do know it all! How you met with her every third day of the week in the in out of the city but still close! Rented a room and never cared for the price, you did! Now, if you'd like to keep her a secret still, you won't care about the price also.”

“You have no proof. Who had told you?” The man was now steaming furious fume like an enraged bull. But unlike a bull he seemed helpless and unable to fight.

Jondrette waved a finger under the man's nose, his speaking was more of a shriek rather than a proper talk: “You yourself! I was the keeper of the inn! Until the child-thief came to ruin me, that is. But now you listen, and listen well. You will pay me, you'll pay for my silence, otherwise all Paris will know what I know. You understood me, Monsieur Larezett?”

Larezett wanted to be a brave men. He stopped himself from retreating backwards into Éponine's arms and spoke with a barely shaking voice: “You have no proof of anything, Thénardier. No one will believe you.”

If the reader has been paying close attention to the story so far, it will not come as a surprise to them that poor Marius had to bit his knuckles hard enough to draw blood and that he collapsed on the floor in shock. Why, the cruel man, the human rabid rat, the cruel weasel, that was his father's saviour? This, of all people was the man to whom Marius was to be grateful for his own birth? Could this be? Why was the life so unfair and hard to him? Was it that the almighty God had a personal vendetta against Marius? If so, was it because the young man considered to maul the God with a hammer?

“Oh, maybe, maybe the won't believe it, but they'll talk about you all the same.”

“I will not pay you a broken sou!”

“I hoped it would not come to this.” Jondrette sounded nearly sad, suddenly calm in his speech. He spoke like a parent would speak to a child who has just broken their favourite toy which the parent despised. “Babet, Claquesous, hold him! Montparnasse, is the chisel ready?”

Suddenly there was crashing and thumping, rushed footsteps and a muffled scream. Marius, still greatly shook, gathered his wits and crawled back to the peek-hole, not caring whether anyone hears him or not. It was improbable that in the chaos on the other side anyone would pay attention to what was happening in Marius's room anyway.

Now the two men who were previously hidden in the shadows behind the brazier, Marius supposed one was Claquesous and the other Babet, but he had no idea who was who, were holding Monsieur Larezett down near the bed. A third man was doing something at one of the legs of the bed and when he stepped aside Marius saw that he was tying the unfortunate man's hands to it. The third man now lit by the weak brazier light was notably younger, about Éponine's age or perhaps even less for he had no whiskers, was not fitting with the rest – he was dressed well. The other two men were also of a thin build, but nowhere near the younger's elegance.

Now he pulled a paper rose from behind his ear and threw it into the brazier in a cautiously calculated manner so it would seem effortless and careless, yet still it would land in the middle where the coal was the hottest. For a moment the room was drowned in light, which after such a long time of darkness was nearly blinding, as the paper burned.

Thénardier, previously known as Jondrette, took a chisel which was being heated in the brazier, the iron was glowing a dangerous red. When he was sure Larezett was paying him his full attention, he put it to the man's forearm.

Larezett screamed, but it came out muffled, as one of the two thin men, I reveal to the reader that it was Babet, stuffed a dirty rag into his mouth. He trashed and kicked into the brazier. Hot coals and burning dust went flying across the room. Éponine screamed in terror and fled thorough the door. The young man who was burning his paper rose was now trying to extinguish his tailcoat. The room was about to be consumed by flames.

Marius backed away from the wall, he was trying to think as panic put siege to his brain and was about to break in any moment with a battering ram.

His option was simple: Flee.

For the first time Marius was grateful for his poverty, or rather he would be grateful for it had he the time to think about it. A wealthy man would have to try to safe the most he could from his belongings, but Marius had only a bag in which he had all his material possession. His only spare shirt and breeches were laying atop his bed, so he stuffed them into the rucksack and along with it he left the house thorough the window.

His feet were fleeing with him, although he was sure he had sprained his ankle, he landed on his feet flat, and his kneecaps and spine made a serious joined attempt to leave his body thorough the top of his skull. Marius stopped inly in the alcove in which he had waited four hours ago when he was returning home, and that was only because he was out of breath and with his chest burning so, he could not run any longer.

He turned around to see what he had managed to escape from. Already, the Gorbeau house was turning into inferno. Flames were spewing from the windows. This was almost what came to Marius's mind always when anyone spoke about Hell.

“Oh dear Lord. I am...” He was for loss at words. Marius could not think of anything to describe his situation. He could only stare at the flames consuming what he was calling _home_ mere minutes ago.

“Screwed?” said someone from around his knees. Marius looked down and in the light of the lamp post he saw gleaming children teeth bared in a grin.

“I suppose, Gavroche. I suppose you are right.”

“As always, guv. Pleasure to see ya. Have a lovely evenin' my dear! Say that Gavroche sends his regards and royal cheese when you see your friends, you hear?”

For someone whose room was crashed into a few minutes before the dawn and who was sent a word of cheese without any context or explanation, Courfeyrac was not surprised enough.

  
  


“Monsieur Pontmercy,” Éponine spoke quietly, “I need your help. I need you to stop my father from doing something very, very bad.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marius "Passionate nostrils" "Fucking Hypocrite" had no right to judge anyone's nostrils, but he judges them all the same. This chapter was originally meant to explain how Marius met Cosette and what a kickass Cosette is. Oh well, instead you have snarky Gavroche and an uncharasterical switch in the point of view n the first third of the chapter.
> 
> (Feed the inky gremlin some comments?)


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